Finding His Way Back
by JeanieBeanie33
Summary: Something I wrote after seeing FN for the second time. J.M. Barrie finally meets the boy who will never grow up. One shot.


I'm bored and restless right now, because none of the stories on my favorites list have been updated and I just saw Finding Neverland, a really good film. And usually when I'm bored and feeling restless, I write. So that's what I'm doing: writing. Then I'm posting it, hence that its possible you can read this. Why you're reading it, I do not know, but all the same, I appreciate it. As you might've guessed, it's going to be a Finding Neverland fic. One-shot, as that's the only thing I'm good at.

**NOTE**: thank you to Sophia to point out that I did the children wrong. So I will say it now: this story is not accurate, not completely. J.M. Barrie DID have a goddaughter, but it wasn't George's daughter, as he and Michael both died young. Thanks again Sophia! My mistake, I didn't know.

Disclaimer: I don't own the late J.M. Barrie, any of the Llewellyn Davies boys, Sylvia, Johnny Depp, Kate Winslet, or anything. I just own my mind, my laptop, and the plot, however small the story may be. Sad, really. Anyway, don't sue, you wouldn't get much anyway.

Finding His Way Back

By: JeanieBeanie33

_Sylvia looked around in awe as she saw the magical place that was Neverland. She saw beautiful young ladies who must've been fairies giggling and chatting, Tiger Lily looking around for any trouble, other Indians prowling around in the bushes, and Peter Pan. She even saw the pirates sneaking around, Captain Hook leading them, as they slowly walked out of the mist, saw that they were outnumbered, and crept slowly back out of view._

"_This," said James quietly, in his Scottish lilt. "Is Neverland." Sylvia allowed a smile slowly creep across her face and two fairy girls lifted up the end of her robe. Quietly, so as to not disrupt the laughter of the children, she made her way into Neverland. The fairies let go of her robe, and she explored Neverland silently, as her children watched. It was just like she imagined, and with a peaceful smile on her face, watched what James had created in his mind thanks to her and her four boys and her mother. _

Twenty-seven years later, Sir James Matthew Barrie allowed a sad, gentle smile go across his face. It'd been many, many years since Sylvia had died and left her boys in her mother and James's care. He no longer mourned for her as much as he did those first couple years, but he still missed and remembered her, and cherished the memories of the small amount of time in his life that he'd spent with her and George, Jack, Peter, and Michael.

Of course, the boys were still alive and well, having gotten over their mother's death the following years with the help of James. George had named James his daughter's goddaughter, and Peter had gone so far as to name one of his sons after him, right down to the middle name. It was the least I could do, he'd said. After all you've done for us, you deserve at least this.

The boys had grown up, James reflected. He'd watched them, and just like they had aged, he had aged too, as well as the rest of the adults around them. Their grandmother had died nine years after their mother had, but they'd been more prepared. They'd no longer been little children. Michael, the youngest, had been fourteen when she died.

James slowly got out of bed, collecting his thoughts, and observed his reflection as he looked into the old mirror. He'd gotten old, true enough, but he had to admit that he looked much younger than the other men his age. He'd been lucky. _Fitting, really_, he mused. _I am Peter Pan after all_. Was it not he that Peter Llewellyn Davies had said was Peter Pan, not himself?

But age was there. Wrinkles marred his once smooth face and limbs and the corners of his eyebrows, he'd gained a few extra pounds with age, but not terribly. His hair, which had previously been dark and brown, was now peppered with white gray with the occasional stubborn dark hair still residing. He was no longer a young man, but the little boy with the big imagination was still there, hiding in the old body. James looked away, and sat down in his chair; putting his head in his hands (he'd been doing that a lot lately).

He'd gone and aged, despite that he was still fit and rather healthy, he was still, undeniably, an old man. An old man who had four adopted children and eleven adopted grandchildren, one of which was his goddaughter. He pulled his hands back down, and felt a tingling sensation, from his head to his toes. Frowning and blaming it on old age, he sighed again. He wished he was young again, young so that he could once again play and run like he had so many years ago.

James moved to rub his head, until he noticed something extraordinary. Just a moment ago, as he'd looked into the mirror, he'd had gnarled and wrinkled hands. But no more, they were now smooth! Smooth as the day he'd met Sylvia. He touched his face. It was smooth as well.

Quickly, James jumped out of the chair, and let out a chair. _He could leap!_ Glancing into the mirror again, he nearly gave a cry with joy. There he was, face smooth, eyes dark and alert, hair dark and not a single gray hair. Raising a hand, fingers trembling, he touched the cool glass of the mirror.

"It's real," James whispered. "It's real!"

"Of course it is!" said a young voice from the window. James whirled around. A young boy with freckles and a smile, dressed in some odd clothing indeed, stood on the windowsill.

"Who are you?" said James.

"Don't you recognize me?" said the boy, laughing. "I'm Peter Pan! Remember?"

"What?" said James, befuddled. "But – you're not real! I made you up. True enough, I borrowed your name and your adventures from real people, but you yourself was made from my imagination!"

"Exactly!" said Peter brightly. "Imagination is real, James. You just have to believe something, and it happens! I do it all the time."

"No, it's not possible," said James, shaking his head.

"Yes, it is!" said Peter. "Come with me, James, and I'll show you!"

"I can't, I can't leave – " James started.

"Leave the boys?" Peter finished. "Don't worry! We'll pick them up on the way there."

"There?" said James, brows wrinkling. He marveled at the fact that you could actually _tell_ he was wrinkling his eyebrows.

"Neverland," said Peter. "Come, we must go, if we want to make it there in time. We have to pick up the boys after all."

"No, Peter, we can't," said James, shaking his head. "You don't understand. The boys – George, Jack, Peter, Michael – they've all grown up. They have families and children and everything! They can't go."

"What?" said Peter, and for the first time James saw something else apart from joy: sadness. "But-but they couldn't have…"

"They did," James confirmed. "They grew up. All children do, eventually. It's a sad thought indeed, and a wee bit tragic, but it's true." Peter looked sad for a moment, then his face brightened.

"Did you say they have children?" he said excitedly.

"Yes," said James. "They have children. George and Jack each have two, Peter has four, and Michael has three."

"Great, we can visit them some other time!" said Peter. "There's someone that wants to see you again, James, someone who me and the Lost Boys have adopted as our Mother. She's told us stories all about you, George, Jack, Peter, and Michael's adventures."

"Did she now?" said James, smiling. He knew someone who went by that description.

"Yes," said Peter. "Let us go. We're going to Neverland again, James. Take my hand."

"But what about pixie dust?" asked James, confused.

"You don't need any," said Peter. "You all ready have it, deep inside you. You just have to believe it." James smiled again, and grabbed tightly onto Peter's hand. He felt his feet leave the floor, and there he was, soaring out the window. He was finding his way back to the place where he belonged.

Sometimes later, they finally reached the second star to the right, and there they were, in Neverland. As they reached the great tree that was the hideout for the Lost Boys, James saw someone who he hadn't seen in twenty-seven years.

Sylvia smiled. "Welcome back, James."

The next morning, the original Davies brothers found their beloved adopted father lying on the window seat, a peaceful smile on his face. George lifted up the wrinkled hand, and felt no pulse.

"He's dead," he said softly.

"The window's open," said Jack suddenly. Indeed, it was.

"But how could it be? The window was closed last night," said Michael. Peter smiled, somehow accepting his adopted father's death with unusual openness.

"I believe we all know the answer to that," he said. George grinned.

"Yes, I believe we do," he said. Jack and Michael smiled as well.

"Looks like Peter Pan made just one last visit," said Jack.

"I'm going to miss him," said Michael quietly.

"Me too," said Jack.

"We all will," Peter concluded. "But – he's in a better place now – with Mother and Grandmother and Tiger Lily and Tinker Bell and the Lost Boys and everyone. Waiting until we get there as well. Until then, we'll just have to wait and pass on the story of Peter Pan so that Uncle Jim will never be forgotten. But when we do, I'll meet that with open arms. After all, to die will be an adventure, and I personally can't wait. Can you?"

His brothers couldn't disagree. As time went on, they told story after story to their children and grandchildren about their beloved Uncle Jim, so that his memory would never be forgotten. And so it was this way that James M. Barrie never died, but lived on in the hearts of those that remembered him, the man who had the heart of the child, and went against all logic and created the greatest child's legend of all time.

James would be proud.

* * *

FIN 

Bit longer than I anticipated. Didn't know how to end it, so sorry if the ending was crappy. Anyway, if you can find the time, please give me your opinion of this via review. I'd be very appreciative.


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